


one of a kind

by days4daisy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: ...Somewhat, Celebrations, Chocolate Box Treat, M/M, Sickfic, Thor: Ragnarok (2017), sick/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-08 00:25:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13446600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: “You're sick,” the Grandmaster says.Loki hears something new in the Grandmaster’s voice. Something...curious?





	one of a kind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Airheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airheart/gifts).



> Happy CB, Airheart! I saw your general like of illness fic. That + your prompts about Grandmaster surprising Loki in the best of ways led to this :)

_Oh, dammit._ It’s the only thought in Loki’s hazy mind. No way out of his current predicament, no sweet words to appease the Grandmaster who, unexpectedly, has appeared in his doorway.

He swans his way into Loki's bedroom, goblet of wine in hand, and announces himself with a cheery, “Lo-Lo, _there_ you are! This sweet little Kree number told me you weren't coming, but I didn't- We talked about this! You and me, we talked about today, didn’t we?”

Loki knew he would be unable to hide from the Grandmaster forever, but he thought he’d have more than a two-hour reprieve.

Loki was doing such a fine job. He won the Grandmaster's favor with a bit of charm and wit. With this status upgrade came security, wealth, and access to the Grandmaster's most lavish affairs.

None was to be more extravagant than today. The Grandmaster’s birthday, celebrating an age he himself will not admit to. When asked, the Grandmaster only smiles and blinks owlishly, playful coyness to mask the truth of his power.

Loki knows what he is. Or, at the very least, Loki fathoms what he may be. The Grandmaster is an eccentric character, but Loki learned quickly not to anger him. He has might far beyond the stick he wields that can melt a creature to - well, goo.

Loki tries to sit up in bed, but his brain sloshes uncooperatively. His head is liquid and lava, and he aches all over.

Loki curses this inopportune weakness. He cannot afford it, not today of all days. “Forgive me, Grandmaster." Loki's voice is like sandpaper, and his own saliva makes his stomach churn. Cold sweat films the back of his neck. “I-”

“It’s true,” the Grandmaster says. His eyes narrow, and his head tips.

Is the Grandmaster displeased with Loki's sad state? Will he bring out his lovely boiling stick? Attach an obedience disk to Loki’s neck? Banish him to the dungeons?

Loki cannot remember the last time he felt so ill. A century ago, maybe more? Sakaar is a hive of infinite delicacies, and a breeding ground for exotic afflictions apparently. Funny, Loki thinks angrily, for a frost giant to feel so cold.

“You’re sick,” the Grandmaster says. His tone is odd. Not a shred of sympathy, nor a touch of teasing.

Loki can’t believe he would lose the creature's favor over something so beyond of his control. But the Grandmaster’s tastes have proven fickle. Loki scrambles for ideas.

“I'll make it up to you,” he promises quickly, though unsure of what exactly he’s promising. He pulls his blankets off with shaking hands and eases carefully towards the bed's edge. “If you’ll allow me a moment, I’ll prepare myself. Wherever you- whatever you want to do-” A shudder cows Loki over the mattress, and he swallows hard to keep from throwing up.

“Hey, I didn’t - stop that, don’t get up.” The Grandmaster’s sandals click across gold-edged floor tiles. Loki is happy to stop, not sure he could have made it all the way to his feet. His head is throbbing, too wet and full.

“You _are_ sick,” the Grandmaster says. Loki hears something new in the Grandmaster’s voice. Something...curious?

Loki hesitates, frowning. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” he assures.

The Grandmaster laughs off the sentiment. “You’re - I’m not _mad_ , is that what you think?”

Loki blinks at his pleased expression. “I...guess not?” He muffles a cough behind a white-knuckled fist. It burns through his chest. He cannot hide his grimace.

“My, that doesn’t sound good at all.” The Grandmaster bends over Loki, eyes bright.

He...likes this? Or, perhaps ‘like’ isn’t the correct term. This vile condition intrigues him? “A chill, that’s all,” Loki murmurs hoarsely.

“Magnificent,” the Grandmaster declares. Perplexed, Loki stares at his beaming expression. “I mean, not for _you_. It seems terrible for you. Are you tired? You look wiped - stars, your _eyes_. You can’t even see straight, can you?”

True as it is, Loki is waging a losing battle against his irritation. He knows better than to let his ire get the best of him with a creature so unpredictable. But weakness is not in Loki’s nature to accept, and he certainly does not want it called to his attention so blatantly.

“Can't you get sick?” Loki asks, fighting annoyance.

“Oh no,” the Grandmaster answers, laughing. “Me? That’s so funny, of course not. But you-” Loki shifts uncomfortably. “You’re not some run of the mill mortal yourself. A god you said, right? A god from Asland?”

“Asgard,” Loki mumbles. The correction has not taken the fifty earlier times the error was made. He doubts it will be accepted now.

The Grandmaster waves off the proper name in favor of sitting on Loki’s bed. He sets his chalice on Loki’s nightstand beside an embarrassingly wadded handkerchief.

Instinctively, Loki moves away, but his limbs are sluggish. He coughs against his shoulder - dry, wracking sounds that make him shudder miserably. His head is throbbing. His sinuses, raw and aching.

Just wait until Loki finds the creature responsible for this farce. His daggers itch for slow, bloody revenge.

“I forgive you,” the Grandmaster says, out of the blue.

“...What?”

“For missing my birthday!” The Grandmaster places a hand on Loki’s blankets.

Loki wants to get  _out_  of here, away from this city, off this planet so he can wallow in misery alone. But he knows better than to invite the Grandmaster’s ire, so he lies still and suffers his stroking.

“Yes, well.” Loki snuffles, scowling at the disgusting sound. “Thank you for your forgiveness. Tomorrow will be much better, with rest. A _lot_ of rest.”

The Grandmaster, of course, does not follow his meaning.

He has long, insistent fingers, and they are intent on kneading Loki’s stomach through his sheets. Perhaps he thinks the touch is soothing? He could not be more wrong.

Loki bites back a groan of dismay, fresh sweat like ice congealing on his brow. He blows out an unsteady breath and tries to think only of the ceiling. Not of the nausea churning in his belly or the bile rising in his throat. He will not be sick. Not now, not  _here_.

“Ah,” the Grandmaster murmurs, “I see.”

Loki does not get a chance to ask what he sees. One moment, his eyes are squeezed against his stomach's revolt. The next, it’s...gone. The nausea, the burning climb up his throat, the illness fluttering in his belly. It all vanishes 

Loki blinks glossy, startled eyes. “You...can heal?”

“Oh yeah, yeah! Well - not _all_ of you.” The Grandmaster’s brow puzzles deeper. “Not without ripping you apart to see what makes you tick. And I’d hate to do that. I mean, it’d be interesting, don’t get me wrong. But there’s a real science to putting a guy back together. It can get messy. Spare parts, you know.”

Loki’s mouth opens, then shuts. For one of few times in his life, he fears he may be out of his league.

The Grandmaster rounds to the opposite side of the bed and tosses himself down at Loki’s side. Loki forces a smile despite his lingering unease.

“It’s curious, though,” the Grandmaster muses with hawkish eyes. “A god from Asplace, you said?”

“ _Asgard_ -”

“You’re not put together like any Asgardian I’ve seen.”

Loki’s breath chokes in his throat. _Oh no._ Weakly, he forces a smile. “You've...known many Asgardians?”

“I wouldn’t say _many._ ” The Grandmaster props his cheek on a hand. His robes droop open, chest bearing gold chains hemmed with rubies. “Not since they stopped trying to conquer stuff. A few though. Enough to know you’re different.”

Dread tightens in Loki’s chest. Instinctively, he claws for his magic. He’s dismayed to find it weak, a mere pittance buzzing beneath his fingertips.

Even with this danger, Loki can't hold back a twinge of anger. Beyond the reach of his childhood home, there is still no escaping that he is not of Asgard. Different, always, from everybody else. Never destined to be a king, or much of anything really.

“I apologize, Grandmaster," he says, a note of bitterness behind the words, "for not meeting your Asgardian standards-”

“Oh no, hey!" The Grandmaster looks wounded. "No, no. Don’t go putting words in my mouth, Lo-Lo. I didn’t say being different was a _bad_ thing.”

Of course it is, Loki thinks bitterly. Being different has been his life's curse to bear, long before he discovered his true parentage. Loki, just a speck in his brother's mighty shadow.

His dead brother.

“You sure like playing with words, don’t you?” Another sentiment Loki has heard too many times. Now, however, it is sighed with affection. The Grandmaster smiles. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but, ah, I’m not a big fan of ordinary. Around here, we like unique." He fingers Loki's hair. "And you - sweetheart, you're one of a kind.”

For this grand oddity, the words feel intimate. There is a shift between them, an offering of trust that Loki would normally descend on like a vulture. He has already woven into the layers of Sakaar’s court. Threading himself inseparably with the Grandmaster will only heighten his position in this strange place.

Loki blinks, frowns, and ducks to muffle a sneeze in his sleeve. “Dammit,” he grumbles into his elbow crook, as if it is to blame for this ridiculous illness. Plotting ways to exploit his newfound favor will have to wait.

Sniffling, Loki offers a smile that must look terribly pathetic. “Thank you for your acceptance, Grandmaster,” he croaks. “I-”

“Wait, was that a...was that a sneeze? Is that something you do too?” The Grandmaster laughs and claps his hands with delight. Loki's stupefied reaction does not faze him. “Wonderful! How fun! You - stars, you’re so _interesting_. And _warm_ \- my goodness, so pretty and pink. You look good enough to eat, sweetheart.”

Loki is 90% sure this is a figure of speech, but eating a living being does not seem out of the question for this creature…

“Can I kiss you?” the Grandmaster asks. He smiles at his own question. “I mean, of course I _can_ , but may I? You ok with that?”

“Er,” Loki stares at him. “I suppose?”

It’s a surprisingly gentle gesture, a chaste touch of the Grandmaster’s lips to his own. His thumb draws across Loki’s jaw, and Loki shivers. His head swims dizzily, and pressure pulses behind his closed eyes. He’s unable to muster more than a weary response. But just this feels...strange? Good?

The Grandmaster rests his forehead to Loki’s, and Loki takes a shaking breath. His hair brushes unkempt down the sides of his face.

The Grandmaster hums his appreciation. “Well, that’s that."

It takes Loki’s fuzzy mind a moment to process the words. “What?”

“I’ve decided,” the Grandmaster says, eyes twinkling. “I’m staying with you.”

“You’re…” _Oh, Norns_. Loki can’t keep disbelief from his face. “You’re staying.”

“Oh yeah! You’re way more fun than anyone else here.” He tucks a piece of Loki’s hair behind his ear, his smile growing as Loki’s dissolves. “I can’t think of a better birthday gift. That is, if you don’t mind the company.”

Loki minds more than he can give a voice to. He fights back a cringe, clearing his throat as a way to buy time. He knows the type of fun the Grandmaster likes best, and at full strength Loki would not be opposed. He has proven to be an...odd lover, but enthusiastic and surprisingly generous.

In Loki's current state, the thought of shedding his sleep clothes makes him shudder.

“It’s just.” Loki conjures his best apologetic look. “I’m not sure how entertaining I'll be like this, Grandmaster.”

“Don’t worry about that.” The Grandmaster drags a teasing thumb across Loki’s lips. Loki swallows a shuddering breath. “You’re plenty entertaining as you are, doll.”

“It’s just, I’m not sure I’ll be able to manage…that.” Loki winces; embarrassed, miserable, and furious about both. He blinks, trying to hold the Grandmaster's focus through this fever haze.

The Grandmaster’s smile slips, and Loki’s heart thumps in alarm. “That's what you think? I want you to-”

“I’m not capable of proper thought at the moment,” Loki quickly cuts in. He tries for a smile, a nervous twitch of lips. “Forgive me. I’m quite tired.” His voice cracks on the final word.

“Well sure, yeah, that makes sense." The Grandmaster's frown settles. "You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”

The words shouldn’t jar Loki as much as they do, but it’s still a struggle to mask his affront. It not _Loki's_ fault he has been ravaged by this illness. It’s this world. This creature. Loki's mad sister for landing him here. His stupid brother for being dead in what remains of Asgard.

Loki’s breath hitches, the slightest of slips. The Grandmaster is watching him too closely to miss it.

“If you need help," the Grandmaster ventures, "I’m sure I can cook up something.”

Loki frowns. “With sleeping, you mean?” He has mixed feelings about the idea. It’s a level of vulnerability he is not comfortable with, particularly with a creature whose power is so far beyond his own.

On the other hand...Loki feels truly awful. “It wouldn’t require splitting me apart and putting me back together, would it?”

“Oh no,” the Grandmaster grins, like Loki made a joke. “No, it’s easy. Here, lie down - yeah, on your back, like that. There you go.”

Loki eases himself down, a wary eye kept on his host. He sniffles thickly as a hand drapes over his forehead. The Grandmaster’s touch is cool. Against Loki’s wishes, he already feels his eyelids drooping. Perhaps this isn't a good idea.

“Comfortable?” the Grandmaster asks.

“Yes,” Loki admits. “So what happens-”

The words die on his lips, and he goes limp.

***

Some time later, he stirs to warmth. His body feels fuzzy and sluggish, stirring from a sleep deeper than any he’s known in years.

Loki shifts lazily. He is not cured, his fever and aches persist, but everything feels far away, as if his ailments do not belong to him. He is too cocooned in comfort to feel such things.

Loki stills when he becomes aware of the arm wound around his waist. A body is pressed to his. Lips graze the back of his neck in greeting.

"Not quite yet, gorgeous," the Grandmaster murmurs. Loki shivers pleasantly, though he doesn't understand.

He risks a glance over his shoulder. In the shadows, the Grandmaster’s eyes shine like glass. Loki makes out his smile. It seems to be pleased.

“Do you sleep?” he asks.

“Not usually, no. There’s too much to do, too much to _enjoy_.” The Grandmaster speaks like he smiles, in a silky drawl. “But this is nice. I like this. You look so sweet when you sleep.” His hand twitches on Loki’s stomach.

Loki's eyes no longer want to stay open. The creature’s spellwork? He doesn’t know. In this moment, he cannot muster the energy to care.

Sighing, Loki stretches long against the Grandmaster’s body. “In that case,” he rasps, “happy birthday, I suppose.”

“It is, Lo-Lo,” the Grandmaster agrees. “It really is.”

*The End*


End file.
